"The Coast of Utopia" by Chro Chusti

Because children grow up, we think a child’s purpose is to grow up, but a child’s purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn’t disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. We don’t value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life’s bounty is in its flow, later is too late. Where’s the song when it’s been sung, or the dance when it’s been danced? It’s only we humans who want to own the future, too. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there’s something wrong with the picture. Where’s the unity, the meaning of nature’s highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and willfulness have their correction in the vast subterranean river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we’re expected to be! But it’s in fact a placeless place named utopia. The death of a child has no more meaning than perishing armies or the death of nations. Was the child happy while he lived? That’s a proper question to ask. If we can’t arrange for our own happiness, it’s a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange for the happiness of those who inherit the earth.